


some very debatable Russian vodka

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP, much alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:38:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a combination of a few glasses of good wine and some pure mad luck that has allowed John to coerce Sherlock into a game of poker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	some very debatable Russian vodka

It’s a combination of a few glasses of good wine and some _pure mad luck_ that has allowed John to coerce Sherlock into a game of poker.

They sit cross legged on the floor, John’s armchair moved in favour of two cushions and the coffee table between them. And that’s a treat in itself, because Sherlock is a tangle of long lines and even longer limbs that aren’t very apt at folding in the correct places. It takes him a hilarious amount of time to get comfortable, and John grins through every moment of it.

Serves him right, really, seen as the man had both forgotten John’s birthday _and_ unknowingly christened the occasion with a fresh batch of assorted fingers and toes in the kitchen sink.

Those little gems combined with a _smidge_ of alcohol and _a lot_ of guilt mongering on John’s part has resulted in getting his own way for once - “A game I can actually _beat_ you at, Sherlock.”

“So,” John begins, doing a bit of flashy card shuffling for no reason whatsoever. “we each take-“

“I’m well aware of the rules, John, child’s play.”

Sherlock has the audacity to yawn, and John decides that he definitely needs to make this more interesting if he’s going to keep the man involved (or awake). Plus he’ll need something strong to stop himself from performing consulting detective _strangulation_. John jumps up and disappears into the kitchen, emerges with two shot glasses and one of the only remaining bottles of spirit that Sherlock hasn’t used to sterilise something.

“Fine, of course you do. How about we up the stakes then?” He raises one eyebrow, shakes the bottle of what is some _very debatable_ Russian vodka.

“Been in there for a while but it should be okay….” John mumbles to himself, doesn’t wait for Sherlock to consent as he pours them a shot each.

There’s a look of definite contempt and an air of _my opinion of you has significantly lowered_ , as Sherlock tips his shot glass against John’s with a chink, downs it in one. John deals the cards with a small smile and Sherlock spends the seconds wriggling against the threadbare carpet, rearranging his legs.

The game plays out like so:

John tries his best - really, his best. But he keeps getting crap hands, making awful decisions and somehow, _he should have known probably_ , Sherlock is bordering sober and John is a few miles past completely sloshed. After another truly terrible round, John throws down his cards a tad more dramatically than he usually would without a belly full of bad vodka, and crosses his arms with a huff.

Sherlock smiles. John wants to hit him. Instead, though;

“Right, right I’m not drinking anymore. No, no, no. _Nope_. We need another forfeit.”

John sways a little on his crossed Buddha legs, and knows things are _bad_. He wracks his brain for something other than an alcoholic penalty and settles on the only thing his considerably slowed down brain waves can come up with.

“Yep. Take off your shirt.”

If Sherlock is surprised at the request, he doesn’t show it. Instead he takes a voluntary shot of paint thinner (it really isn’t good enough to be called vodka) and starts on the topmost button of his shirt.

“May I ask _why_ I have to remove my shirt?”

“New forfeit, Sherlick. Lock. Idiot.”

 _Sherlock. Sher-lock._ _Goddamn, so drunk._

“But I haven’t lost a hand, yet.”

Ah yeah. That’s quite true. But it takes John a good few stop-motion like moments to forge an acceptable answer - partly because of his burgeoning drunkenness, but mostly because Sherlock is half way through undoing his shirt buttons, and he does have a very _very_ pale sculpted chest. Maybe strip poker isn't such a good idea. Or poker at all. Or just having a birthday. _Totally_ his birthday’s fault. Damn thing.

“Um. Well, you know. Balancing the scales. I’m drunk, so you should be at least in some part naked.”

Yes. That makes complete sense, doesn’t it?

“Hmm, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Sherlock replies and downs another two shots, John ignores the way he smirks around the rim of the glass. He focuses instead on the way he shrugs his shirt languidly from his shoulders, the delicate dips and hills of his stomach muscles as they roll with each small movement.

Naturally, his luck doesn’t turn. There are a few really dire hands - a pair of fours, really? - in which John loses his shoes, socks, jumper and even his watch (Sherlock clears his throat but doesn’t begrudge him the free pass) until he’s exhausted every item of clothing apart from his pants, shirt and boxers.

For a couple of golden, relieving moments, John thinks he’s catching a break. Sherlock loses a hand, and in lieu of having no shoes or socks on to rid himself of, settles for unbuckling his belt. Except it’s not really a reprise of any kind for John, because those soul consuming eyes are locked on his, _remain_ on his for the entire slow, _purposeful_ duration of Sherlock’s belt removal.

John reaches for another shot-

“No more alcohol, you said.”

The man wraps fingers around his wrist, the vodka spills a little from where the glass is rested against John’s lips, dribbles down his chin, but he doesn't give it up. Sherlock leans across until the edge of the table digs into his stomach, and drags his tongue, hot, along the wet alcohol stained path.

“Well, then, at least drink it properly.”

John finds his fingers empty as Sherlock takes the shot from him, tips it into his own mouth. And then - _then_ John parts his lips because Sherlock’s pressing them open, _feeding_ him a burning mouthful of warm vodka with fingernails scratching at his jaw.

He loves poker, he really does. And John thinks that with each violent push of Sherlock’s mouth against his own, as he is pulled literally by his belt hoops up off the floor and against the nearest wall.

“Let’s just assume that you would’ve lost the next couple of hands, shall we?”

Sherlock asks, no _tells_ ; thumbs John’s shirt buttons through their holes with dexterous ease, observes the pitch and fall of John’s breath with his teeth grazing a nipple, with his one hand throwing away the shirt and the other firmly holding John’s hip against the wall.

There isn’t much to say so John doesn’t attempt to decipher or wonder at how the hell they got into this, doesn’t even stop to say _are you sure, we shouldn’t be doing this._ Because of course they shouldn’t, it’s a terrible idea - but it’s also the _best_ Sherlock’s ever had. So John accepts it, rolls with it, _drowns_ in it.

The static heat radiating from Sherlock’s mouth just makes John want to touch him, so badly, but he can’t, he’s pinned, there are hands pulling down his trousers and scratching at his thighs, a head of dark curls disappearing between them. Fucking, _fuck_.

As Sherlock’s lips circle the head of John’s cock he slams his head back, tries to sink himself into the wall and think of anything but the hot soft ring of flesh surrounding him - _lie back and think of England_ \- attempts to quell the tangled groans and obscenities rumbling from his throat.

It’s impossible. Sherlock hasn’t done this before (John knows this even though he doesn’t, in fact, _know it_ ) but he’s a damn fast learner, and he shouldn’t be surprised; shouldn’t be shocked that after several swipes with the flat of his tongue and some delicate sucking and the _slightest_ scrape of teeth, that he is coming, breaking apart, squeezing his eyes shut through trembling acres of _yes yes, Sherlock_.

John - when oxygen graces his lungs again - brings Sherlock’s face up to his own with both hands, tastes himself as he slides their mouths together, runs his tongue across the backs of Sherlock’s teeth. With unquestionable ease, he unzips the man and curls a hand around him, pulls and squeezes and whispers _come on, Sherlock, come for me_ with each quick movement. And for once, Sherlock does as he is told; spills all over John’s fingers in the sweetest way, with a deep carnal moan, presses his forehead into John’s neck as he rides out the waves.

The adrenaline drains and John’s legs begin to cramp, so he steps out of his trousers and stumbles still half-drunk to the sofa. Sherlock joins him, long and lean as he slumps against him, shoulder to shoulder. John doesn’t quite know what to say. For lack of any other conclusion, Sherlock ghosts a tentative finger along his thigh, voice rough as he asks-

“Who won?”

  


  



End file.
